It’s wild how much ears matter.

I have two infected and sore angry with life ears.  I am on uber drugs and happy for them.  But in the meantime, I am living with a sense of the surreal.

I depend on my ears.  Last night I was the cantor for a delicious new worship adventure at our church.  We are sharing Holden Evening Prayer every Wednesday.  Each Wednesday we come together, pray and sing words shared through the centuries, and hear the faith story of one of our members.  Last night was amazingly powerful.

Even more so for me because I heard multiple pitches.  The overtones coming from the piano were perplexing:  which note was THE note?  I decided to trust myself, and asked those gathered to hold their noses to let me know I had made the wrong choice.  I didn’t see any held noses, so I have to believe I was in the right place pitch-wise.

What that did?  It freed me!  Crazy but true.  Because I knew there was potential for wild discord, I was happy with what I could do rather than hyper critical of what I heard as I sang.  I was able to sing with a bemused sort of gratitude that while my ears were wildly funky, my voice could still share powerful good news.  Our prayers do rise like incense before our God.  They do.

Now I am in Denver.  I was worried about the air pressure challenges on my plugged up friends, but it was no problem.

I am here to celebrate the life of my uncle.  I will gather with cousins and siblings and mom and we will give thanks for the zest of Peers Fawcett.

I enter this time of family still encased in the cocoon of compromised hearing.  But the faces and the light of love will shine through the muffle.

Powerfully aware that I walk in my own company, I am.

And that’s ok.


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